What Do You Want For Breakfast?
by Vican
Summary: Newlyweds, kitchen sex, bacon and pancakes. That pretty much covers it. A silly little story for IcelandGirl812's birthday. ExB, AH, M-rated. Do not take any of the following seriously.


This is a little stupid, silly something I wrote today, because it's IcelandGirl812's birthday. She is my beloved pre-reader/beta, my Bacon, my Dolt Sister, my love, my light, my everything. Basically, she is my life now. So I gave her this.

Seriously. This has no plot. It's basically just porn. And I'm not even convinced it's the good kind, but I'm letting her, and you guys, read it anyway.

I'm sorry.

The lovely vickigoesroar ever so kindly gave this a quick pre-read for me – thank you again!

* * *

><p>"Honey?"<p>

I got no response. I gave it another try.

"Sweetie?" I even waited ten whole seconds for that one, but still nothing. "Edward?" What the fuck, was he deaf all of a sudden? Losing my patience, I finally yelled, "HEY, ASSFACE!" My voice reverberated through the house.

A couple of seconds passed before I finally got a response.

"_What?_"

He stomped around upstairs, his big, floppy feet whacking against the floor.

"What do you want for breakfast?"

"_What?_"

"What do you want for breakfast?" I asked, a little louder.

"_What? I can't hear you._"

"WHAT do you WANT for BREAKFAST?"

"_Sorry, what?_"

"FOR FUCK'S SAKE. WHAT DO YOU FUCKING WANT FOR FUCKING BREAKFAST?"

"_Oh. Uh... what are you making?_"

I slammed my spatula down on the counter. I wondered if it was being married to him which made him more annoying to me now. We'd only been married a week at that point, so god knew what it would be like in a few years.

"Would you just come downstairs!" I snapped.

His footsteps shuffled overhead. The top step creaked under his weight.

_Oh, so _now_ he can hear me just fine. _

He popped around the corner, yawning loudly. It worried me slightly that despite the fact that I could see his tonsils and he was annoying the crap out of me, I still wanted to rip his t-shirt and boxers off.

How long did 'newlyweds' last as an excuse for constantly wanting to have sex?

"It's a little early to be yelling that much, isn't it?" he commented, coming towards me.

"You didn't hear what I said! What was I supposed to do, send up a pigeon?"

"Gross. You know I hate pigeons."

"That's why I didn't do that. Because I'm a nice person. And I don't want bird poop in my house."

"Mmhm," he hummed, stopping in front of me. He hooked a finger at the neckline of my shirt – well, his shirt – and took a peek inside. "And it wouldn't have anything to do with you not actually having a pigeon on hand?"

"What are you talking about? I have loads of pigeons."

"Oh, right. I forgot. Silly me."

He let go of my – his – shirt and bent down to kiss my cheek instead. A slow kiss. A heavy kiss. A kiss with stubble and heat and soft lips which he dragged over my skin.

I made a weird sound. Somewhere between holding-back-a-moan and a shameless sigh. I couldn't help it. He'd woken me up with this exact kind of kiss at 2 AM this morning. Only not on my cheek. Way further down than that.

Way... _way_... further down. Below-my-navel kind of further down.

Just thinking about it sent thrills through me; without permission, my brain replayed the entire glorious event for me. Blood and warmth rushed through my body, settling between my legs. Holy crap. A dull pounding started up, urging me to force my lovely husband to do something about it. Preferably as soon as possible.

"Why are you doing this to me?" I whined. Breathed, moaned out like a whore – whatever.

"What, I can't kiss my wife on the cheek in the morning?" he said, his lips right over my ear, tickling me. My entire body convulsed with pleasure, goosebumps rippling over my skin. My nipples tightened up so fast it fucking hurt.

"Oh god, don't use that word. I'm hungry. I need breakfast. Don't make me put off breakfast," I said, even as I shoved my hands under his t-shirt.

"What word?" he said, his own hands doing a bit of travelling. He couldn't seem to decide between boobs or ass, so he went back and forth between them. A few seconds later he settled for having one hand on each.

"_That _word. The W-word."

"Oh, _that_ word..." He sucked lightly at my neck, squeezing his fingers. I involuntarily sank my nails into his skin. "You mean... _wife_?"

My hips surged forward automatically. God, I wanted to climb him like a fucking tree. My legs twitched; I had to lift one and hook it around his thigh. Like, I _had_ to. I didn't have a choice. He was warm against my stomach, and hot, and heavy, and well on the way to rock-solid.

I liked him rock-solid.

"What's the matter, Bella? You seem to react very strongly when you hear me say that you're my... _wife_."

A frustrated groan left me. "For fuck's sake, Edward. Please. I'm starving."

"She says as she attempts to dry-hump her husband," he said, chuckling and groaning a little himself. The hand on my ass slid, with practiced ease, underneath my undies. My own hands roamed his back, grappling to find purchase as my knee began to give out.

_Stupid knee. Stupid, sexy husband. Stupid hands of sexy husband on my ass and- oh god, moving, oh god, oh god oh-_

"Oh!"

All thoughts of breakfast immediately deserted me. His arm was twisted between us in what was probably a quite awkward and maybe even a little painful position for him, but I didn't give a shit. He cupped me, a finger slipping easily between my lips. A breath hissed through my teeth.

"_Fuck_..." he said quietly, the sound almost rumbling through his chest.

Things progressed incredibly quickly after that. He picked me up, swung me around and dumped my ass on our kitchen table. I ripped my shirt off, he took care of his own, and then his lips were on mine. Frantically, we gripped each other, acting as if we hadn't been having sex at least once a day for the past week.

He squeezed my boobs while I abused his hair. Oh god, his hair. I teased him all the time for using fancier shampoos and conditioners than I did, but he knew how much I loved it. It was so fucking soft and smooth. I associated it so strongly with mind-blowing pleasure that just touching it made me horny. Sort of like Pavlov's dogs, only instead of bells, it was hair, and instead of food, it was sex.

Sex was so much better than food.

Our kisses were messy, uncoordinated, _slightly _morning-breathy, and absolutely fantastic. I tried to wrap my legs around him, wanting to feel him closer, but he grabbed my thighs and stopped me.

"On your back," he ordered, his fingers moving quickly to the edge of my underwear. As soon as I was horizontal, he tugged at the fabric with urgency. Five seconds later, he was on his knees.

He wasted no time in teasing me or building up to anything – he'd done that enough in the middle of the night. I basically just wanted him to do me, something he'd thankfully picked up on, apparently. It was a good thing our house had sturdy-ass walls; I felt like being loud.

After what didn't seem like long at all, he gave the side of my leg a little slap. I raised my head to look down at him when he stopped using his tongue for its god-given purpose.

"More?" he asked, raising a sexy eyebrow at me. I put a hand on his forehead and pushed.

"No, I'm good. Just start with the thrusting, please."

"Your version of dirty talk is so strange," he said as he rose to his feet, shaking his head at me.

"Ugh, fine." I rolled my eyes and cleared my throat. "No, just fuck me, please. _Please_, oh god, I want you in me, Edward. I want your big, hard di-"

"Well now it's just weird."

"Yeah, exactly. See what happens when you complain during sex? You make it weird. Stop making it weird and just do me."

He grabbed my shoulders and pulled me up. "Fine, Miss Bossypants."

"Actually – it's _Mrs_. _Cullen_," I corrected him, reaching for his underwear. He froze and stared at me; something alarming – alarmingly sexy – suddenly flared up in his eyes. There was pride, and hunger, and maybe even a little bit of insanity in there. He made a sound I had only ever heard bears make on Animal Planet.

"You bet your ass it is," he growled – _oh god, my husband growls_– and before I knew what was happening, he'd pulled me off the table. I whooped in surprise, only to be spun around and pushed back down.

"Spread your legs," he said as I heard his boxers hit the floor.

"Now who's the Bossypants?" I said, panting and a little breathless. Not so much from the sex thing, but more from the edge of the table digging into my stomach.

He didn't answer, and I said nothing more. I was too busy moaning and arching my ass up against him.

My darling husband sucked at a lot of things. Like picking up his phone when I called him, or grocery shopping. He refused to eat fish more than once a month, and he hated emptying the dishwasher. He regularly 'forgot' I wanted milk in my coffee when he brought up two cups for us on lazy Sunday mornings in bed, forcing me to get up and get it myself. He never separated the whites from the colours if he did the washing, and he insisted on spreading his junk all over the house.

But of course, he was also good at a lot of things. One of those things happened to be sex.

He sank into me, trying to be slow and patient, but his grip on my hips told me he was struggling with that. An impressive string of curses flowed from his lips so fluently that it sounded like he was reading the most obscene poem I'd ever heard.

"_Oh god_..." I groaned. I reached out for the edges of the table – something told me I'd want to hold on for this one.

Turns out, that was a smart decision. Once he really got into the rhythm of things, he moved the piece of furniture beneath me with every thrust. The sound of the flimsy little legs sliding back and forth over the floor fit in surprisingly well with the slap of skin on skin and our loud vocalisations. I wondered if the same would be true of a bed knocking into a wall.

I'd have to tell him to try to make that happen sometime, just so I could compare.

The thing about Edward was that he rarely spoke during sex. Not because he was too shy for dirty talk or anything, but because he was too busy keeping his lips on my skin. He'd kiss me, bite me, lick me and suck on any sensitive areas he could reach. Sometimes he'd just breathe against me, or whisper quiet, little words, or groan into my ear.

This time, he bent over me, panting against my neck, kissing my throat, biting my shoulders, dragging his lips up and down my spine. He drove me absolutely insane, and with his hand considerately working away between my legs, I came quickly.

This was where we differed; while Edward was quiet during sex, I always knew he was close when he'd suddenly start babbling incoherently and kinda loudly. I, on the other hand, would only shut the fuck up when an orgasm ripped through me. Edward thought it was hilarious, of course.

So the kitchen fell into silence – except for the thrusting and the squeaky table – as my entire body seized up. It felt like my brain short-circuited, and it was amazeballs.

I barely had time to take a breath before his babbling started up behind me. His thrusts became harder and more desperate. I pushed back against him, rising up on my toes to give him a better angle. A second later, he froze; groaning a drawn-out "_fuuuuuuuuck..._!", he began to shudder, his muscles trembling as he came.

"Shit, shit, shit... _shit_..." he mumbled as he finished, his forehead coming to a rest against the back of my neck. "God, I love you."

"Love you... too."

We stayed like that for a while, breathing and trying to get our minds back in working order. It was only the loud and vicious rumbling of my stomach that prompted us into movement.

"Told you I was hungry," I grumbled as I got up.

"Sorry," he chuckled, turning me around so he could kiss me. "From now on, I promise I will make sure to feed you before ravishing you on the kitchen table."

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure that was in your vows."

He just grinned, bending down to kiss me again.

"So, breakfast? What do you want?"

"Are you too hungry to make pancakes?" he asked.

"Yeah. But I'll do them anyway. And some bacon."

"Best wife ever."

"Yup. You know what would make you the best husband ever?"

"No, what?"

I pointed at the table. "If you wiped that down with a shitload of disinfectant."

* * *

><p>Happy birthday, Bacon. This wasn't as brilliant as the one you wrote for me, but then again, not a lot could top that. So I hope you enjoyed this piece of silliness, because if you didn't... well, that would be really unfortunate.<p>

I'd say I love you more than bacon, but since you are Bacon, that would just be weird.


End file.
